


Came To Stay

by 4badmice



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Caring Eames, Eames can cook, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickness, a little bit of mutual pining, bit of fluff too, colleagues to friends to lovers, post-Fischer job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4badmice/pseuds/4badmice
Summary: When Eames goes to check on Arthur after an unusually long period of radio silence, he finds a version of the Point Man which is new to him. Luckily, Eames has always been good in improvising.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception.

 

The exception upholds the rule. At least that's what his mother used to say, and five years of working with Arthur have convinced Eames that it's true.

Forging people has become second nature to Eames. He's got an eye for details and an ear for accents, and he still feels a thrill once he's gotten under his current target's skin in every sense of the word, can imitate them to the point of perfection.

And yet. He's certain he could forge anyone of his acquaintances and even friends, but he'd have to draw the line at Arthur. The Point Man keeps surprising him, and while Eames is very adept at distancing himself emotionally from the person he's targeting in order to study them more closely, he just can't do the same with Arthur. He admittedly has got a soft spot for the younger man, one he usually hides carefully, since it might be even more than just general affection. Eames forbids himself these thoughts, though; he doesn't need the distraction.

There are occasions on which it's difficult. Arthur can look after himself, of course, but since their job is not exactly harmless, things happen. Whenever they work together, and it has become a frequent occurrence ever since the inception, Eames catches himself at not only watching Arthur but keeping an eye out for him.

And now, two months after their last collaboration, Eames is beginning to worry, since he's heard absolutely nothing from Arthur since then. Well, almost nothing. He's texted him once or twice but only got annoyingly cryptic answers. It seems strange, since it seemed to him as though they were having a increasingly good thing going, a thing he can't quite define but which is based on their teamwork during the Fischer job. There is mutual trust now, and something else. Something not quite established yet but solid enough that it's strange if Arthur's behaving like this. Eames thinks he must be very much mistaken if he's only been imagining it, especially since, deep down and no matter how hard he tries to keep himself in check, he can't stop hoping that their relationship might some day evolve into something romantic. If Arthur is interested in men at all. If Eames is what he wants. These thoughts are almost too alarming to dwell on. Anyway, this is not about him, this is about Arthur, who hopefully is okay.

Eames is not exactly nervous, but when his flight touches down in London, where Arthur is currently living, he's tremendously relieved. He'll just drop by the Point Man's flat and see what he's up to, if he's home at all. Maybe he's freelancing somewhere; maybe he's simply taking time off. Eames doesn't know which one he'd actually prefer.

At any rate, he's most definitely not prepared for the sight of Arthur with ungelled hair, wearing a jumper and a pair of track pants. Even so, he still manages to look as pristine as always. Eames however notices how pale he is, how measured his movements are when he wordlessly opens the door a little wider to let his unexpected visitor in once he's recovered from the momentary shock to find Eames on his doorstep.

“Who put you through the ringer then, darling?” Eames asks because somehow, they seem to have skipped the hello-how-have-you-been-part, and there's an unwonted frailty to Arthur he'd like explained.

“No one,” Arthur replies quietly; his voice is lacking its usual strength. Slowly, he leads the way into a small living room, inviting Eames to sit with a nod while surreptitiously pushing aside a woolen blanket on the sofa which he lowers himself onto now; obviously, he's been resting.

Eames sits down in an armchair, waiting for the other to say something.

“I had to have surgery,” Arthur provides after a moment of hesitation.

Eames' heart beats almost painfully in his chest at those words, but outwardly, he remains calm: “What for?”

“An abdominal tumor,” Arthur's tone is flat. “They removed it last week.”

A cold rush runs down Eames' back. A tumor. What is it about that word alone that sounds so threatening, he wonders while he tries to speak; in fact, he has to clear his throat twice before he can produce intelligible sounds: “Benign, I hope.”

“Yes. It wasn't cancerous.”

“And how're you doing, love?”, Eames asks because _And why do you still look so ghastly_ doesn't seem appropriate.

“I'm getting there,” Arthur mutters. “It was rather deep-seated.” He also lost a lot of blood due to an unexpected haemorrhage, but he doesn't intend to mention that. He can see enough concern on Eames' face, and he doesn't want to dwell on the surgery or his hospital stay. It was dreadful to wake up feeling as battered and weak as he did (and still does, to some extent), he wants to leave the whole experience behind.

He looks at Eames now: “Why are you here?”

The other man shrugs: “I hadn't heard from you in a while, thought I'd check in.” His eyes are still roaming over Arthur enquiringly, taking stock. On closer inspection, Arthur does look rather more peaky than Eames'd like, and he seems to have lost weight. He's always been lean, but now he's stick thin. But he's also lovely, as always. It's not easy to bear, all that loveliness, as long as Eames can't openly appreciate it.

“I'll be fine,” Arthur now mutters, pulling the Forger out of his musings. Eames looks around: there's nothing but a half empty glass of water on the table, and for some reason, this almost pains him. Wordlessly, he gets up again and walks over into the kitchen, where he opens the fridge and the cupboards, the dishwasher, the sink, the rubbish bin.

All of which are mostly empty.

Arthur appears in the door: “What are y-”

“You need someone to take care of you,” Eames cuts across him. “You won't get better if you don't eat.”

“I _am_ eating.”

“It doesn't look like it.”

“Eames-”

“No point in Eamesing me, darling.” He tries not to let on how much this obvious self-neglect unsettles him. Well, maybe Arthur hadn't really taken convalescence into account before going to the hospital. But still.

“We're friends, aren't we?,” he continues, heart beating almost painfully for a moment, but to his relief, Arthur doesn't protest.

“I've got some time. I'll go grocery shopping for you, and then I'll cook something.”

With trembling fingers, Arthur touches the totem in his pocket, for a moment unsure whether this is really happening. The day has been grey and cold so far, but somehow, Eames always makes things better, probably because he's exuding so much confidence, an air of being in control.

“I didn't know you could cook,” he says before shaking himself out of it: “Yes, we're friends. And I do appreciate this. But I don't need you to shop and cook for me. I can have groceries delivered if I need something.”

“You need _every_ thing,” Eames counters, “even tea. And that should be telling you something, since you're in England. If the queen were to hear about this!”

Without noticing that he's doing it, Arthur wraps his arms around his midsection because for once, he's run out of arguments.

“I _can_ take care of myself,” he says somewhat lamely. He's tired now and shouldn't have to have this conversation. The truth is that he knows Eames is right, but he's been hiding from the world. The diagnosis after months of being unwell and the subsequent surgery have been a blow he's still dealing with. He's always felt unassailable, at least when his private life was concerned. As long as he had enough money to keep himself afloat, he was content. Independent and free to do whatever he wished to do.

Being ill meant limitations of the less enjoyable kind, of having to give himself over into other people's hands, which he's never been particularly comfortable with, even during extractions.

He hated all of it. The examinations, the brisk cheerfulness of the nurse who had prepped him for the surgery, waking up in Post Anaesthesia Care to a rather worried-looking nurse and feeling weak as a kitten. He had a fever as well, and since the whole matter hadn't gone as smoothly as he had hoped, he had to stay in hospital longer than anticipated. When he came home on the previous day, he had to stop on the stairs twice to catch his breath, which was awful because it made him feel like an invalid.

And now Eames. Whom he's missed, if he is honest with himself. Whose presence is never unwelcome, on the contrary, even if Arthur usually does his best to hide it. But to whom he doesn't, under any circumstances, want to appear weak or incapable.

Eames' gaze is fond as he takes in Arthur's slightly hunched form, the way he's surreptitiously leaning against the door jamb: “We've known each other for such a long time now, darling,” he says drily. “I've seen you die in a trillion different ways. Starving is one of the less attractive ones.”

“I'll be fine,” Arthur insists.

“You're trembling.” Eames's voice is gentle all of a sudden, there's no mockery left in his tone. “I can see that you're not well yet. Stop being stubborn, will you? You don't have to be perfect at all times.”

He smiles, obviously pleased with himself, while Arthur looks like a deer caught in the headlights: “Do you have a string bag?”

Arthur, who's still struggling with the implications of what Eames meant by 'at all times', shakes his head: “Are you confusing me with an eighty year old lady?”

Unperturbed, Eames shrugs: “I'll spare you the honest answer out of respect, love.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, which Eames is actually glad about, because Arthur is too vulnerable right now, too fragile. A bit of banter will hopefully do him good.

“I'll be going to the shops, then, darling,” he says, “anything in particular you'd like?”

 

When Eames comes back laden with bags, Arthur has dozed off on the sofa. Eames puts away the groceries as quietly as he can, then goes to check on his friend. He looks much younger in his sleep as his edges are softer somehow, and still so darn vulnerable. Eames' eyes linger on Arthur's mouth, wondering how it'd feel to kiss him, then mentally kicks himself out of it.

Subdueing a sigh, he quietly goes into the kitchen, closing the door behind him in order not to disturb the sleeper.

Who wakes up a few hours later at dusk, momentarily confused as to what and where and why, but then he remembers. Eames. A jolt of adrenaline runs through him. Eames is still here, Arthur can hear him whistling in the kitchen. It smells heavenly, too, and Arthur notices that he's hungry. For a few more minutes though, he stays where he is, enjoying the moment, but then his bladder begins to complain. After a short trip to the bathroom, he ventures into the kitchen. He doesn't find the chaos he for some reason anticipated; a large pot is simmering on the stove, spreading a lovely aroma, everything is tidy, and Eames is sitting at the small table reading the papers.

He looks up as Arthur comes in, smiling: “Good timing, darling,” he says. “Food's about ready.”

“Smells good.” Arthur thinks it's a bit surreal that they're making small-talk like this, but it's also nice. Eames has made a scrumptious vegetable soup, and they're mostly silent while they eat. It's completely dark outside now, but the kitchen, which hasn't been used much until today, is rather cosy. One might believe that they are living normal lives, that it's their daily routine to eat home cooked meals together in the evening after a long day of work, that they share a bed, have a mutual future. Mutual dreams that have nothing to do with extraction.

The notion is as scary as it is compelling, and Arthur can't but acknowledge a vague sense of regret. _You can't miss something you never even knew you wanted_ , he tells himself. _Don't be stupid_.

Eames watches Arthur, who eats slowly, slender fingers playing with the spoon from time to time, and decides that he'll stay. It felt good to be cooking for Arthur, knowing that he was sleeping in the next room. Eames loves his job and the variety of thrills it has to offer, but one needs some peace and quiet in between, a bit of grounding. It feels right to be here, with Arthur. He only hopes that it's reciprocated.

His heart soars when Arthur unexpectedly looks up and tells him that the soup is delicious, a brief smile in his otherwise serious eyes that makes Eames want to grab him and kiss him.

“I'm glad you like it,” he says instead as calmly as he can. “It's my own recipe.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow: “Since when do you have such an interest in cooking?”

“Since always, it just never came up. I also happen to make the best coffee in the entire world.”

Now this does elicit a grin. Arthur shakes his head: “I see, your secret ingredient is modesty.”

Eames shrugs, also grinning. “There _are_ no secret ingredients,” he then says. “You just have to know what you're doing, it's... intuitive. It's in your hands. If you simply dump everything into the pot, it's not the same.”

Arthur puts his spoon down, studying Eames for a moment, something akin to amusement playing around the corners of his mouth: “So what is it that makes your coffee so special?”

Eames momentarily flounders, wondering whether he is imagining things because it seems that Arthur has just gone from zero to flirting in less than a second. It definitely _was_ flirting what he just did there, even though Eames would have missed it if he had blinked. Or maybe he _is_ imagining things, the wish being the mother of the thought? Bugger- only Arthur can flirt in such an inconspicuous way. If it _was_ flirting. A brief grin like lightning and a slight tilt of his head in addition to his all but suggestive tone- for a fleeting moment, there was something palpable there. And now Arthur looks... what? Sheepish? Nonplussed? Trust him to flirt inadvertently, Eames thinks, inwardly shaking his head. Well. Two can play at that game, and maybe things have long since been set in motion anyway.

Eames doesn't have to think twice about what to do next. He slowly, unhastily, reaches out and touches the other's cheek with the back of his fingers, caressing the soft skin for a moment while he is holding Arthur's gaze, Arthur who seems rapt and as breathless as Eames feels: “Same principle,” he murmurs, mesmerized by the depth of those brown eyes, “you handle it with care.”

He can feel his heart pounding in the silence that follows, it feels like he's the epicentre of an earthquake.

Arthur closes his eyes. He didn't mean to come on to Eames, but now he's glad he has. He can still feel that touch, feathery light but solid, warm, tender. He hasn't been touched like that for so long, he's forgotten how good it feels. He wants to savour it, or have more. It takes a lot of composure to not jump up and at Eames right now. But Arthur has learned not to rush these things.

When he opens his eyes again, Eames is watching him, absent-mindedly fiddling with his totem, a fond expression on his face.

“I see,” Arthur mutters. “Yes. Makes sense.”

As they continue to eat, there's a small smile playing around Arthur's mouth, and Eames thinks that he's never looked lovelier, despite his much too pale skin, the dark shadows underneath his eyes.

“Are you staying?” he asks once they're finished, hoping his voice doesn't tremble.

Eames manages a casual shrug: “I better. I'm planning on making you breakfast tomorrow.”

 

Later, Arthur lies in bed with his eyes open, listening. Eames is sleeping on the sofa tonight, and Arthur is actually glad that he stayed. What a day, he thinks. What an unexpected turn of events. With the warmth of Eames' hand still on his skin, he closes his eyes. This echo of Eames' touch brings with it another kind of warmth which slowly spreads throughout Arthur's every fibre, vibrant and strange and confusing and wonderful all at once. It takes Arthur a long time to fall asleep.

 

Eames switches off the TV and turns onto his side. So this is where Arthur is living right now. It's cosier than he'd have thought, less stainless steel and more wood than anticipated. There are some things which add a personal touch, which is nice; in the kitchen, there even are a few photos on a pin board, some of people Eames knows, some of strangers, probably family. Some of those have Arthur in them, mostly older ones. He likes it, and he likes that he can smell Arthur's scent, which is lingering in the sofa cushions. Inhaling deeply, he smiles; when they first got to know each other, Arthur appeared rather reserved and distant most of the time. Eames quickly found out that the real Arthur wasn't anything like that, but he seemed wary around people he didn't know. Eames however knew Dom and Mal, and he figured that they wouldn't have befriended Arthur if he actually were the cold fish he pretended to be. From that moment on, Eames turned on his charm whenever they met or worked together, and Arthur eventually began to let his guard drop around him. They've come quite a way, Eames thinks, but now he is unsure all of a sudden. Maybe he's blindsided Arthur by charging in like this; he did seem rather confused after their meal.

“What the hell are you doing?” Eames asks himself in an undertone. “Where do you think this will lead? You don't even know Arthur that well.” But he does, if he comes to think of it. He may not have known which kind of furniture Arthur prefers, but he knows that he drinks a strong black tea every morning, which books he reads and that he likes snow, to name a few. In his head, Eames begins to make a list of things he knows about Arthur, and he hasn't finished yet when he finally dozes off.

 

Eames didn't exaggerate, his coffee _is_ good. Arthur sips it slowly, savouring the taste. He's feeling much more human today since he had a shower, which he didn't yet feel up to yesterday. It was a bit of a fumble to put the waterproof dressing over his wound, making him queasy for a moment, but the shower was wonderful. As is the breakfast. Eames made pancakes, which usually are a Sunday Only treat, and they are as perfect as the coffee. Arthur thinks that this here, this kitchen and this food, is better than any suite with room service in a five star hotel.

“Are you working at the moment?” he asks Eames, because they have talked about anything but the reason for his friend's visit and it seems rude to simply ask the Forger why he's in London. Well. He would have, once, while they were nothing more than colleagues. But the warmth which is entirely Eames-induced is still there, and he doesn't want to be impolite. Or give Eames a wrong impression by implying that he should leave.

Eames shakes his head: “I did a job in Spain last month. Easy money, nothing complicated.” The Fischer job actually has become a benchmark which determines these things nowadays.

Arthur waits for him to continue, but Eames doesn't seem to want to elaborate.

“So what are you doing today?”

Eames shrugs: “We could take a walk in the park, if you're up to it.”

Arthur wonders, just for a second, if Eames is kidding him. “Take a walk?” he echoes.“Don't you have other things to do?”

“Well, I _could_ do the dishes first.” Eames says lightly. When Arthur still looks puzzled, he sits up a little straighter: “I don't have other things to do,” he clarifies.

Blinking, Arthur clears his throat: “Oh. Okay, then.” If Eames hasn't got anything else to say, Arthur certainly won't object. “I've got an appointment at the hospital today though,” he adds.

Eames can't help it, he immediately looks worried.

“They'll just check if everything's healing as it should,” Arthur explains. “I had a drainage to prevent infection, which they've taken out the day before I was released. They just need to make sure it's all right.”

“You would have noticed if something were wrong, wouldn't you?” Eames frowns.

“I think so.”

“Was it painful?”

“Not as much as getting shot in the knee,” Arthur says truthfully. A considerable downside of their job is the pain memory which one can't turn off. Even though the pain isn't real once one has woken up, the memory of it is. With time, every extractor learns to deal with it, but sometimes, if things go wrong, one wakes up shaky and tense from the agony.

Eames nods; he vividly remembers how Dom once kept blinking and rubbing his eyes for an hour after getting a face full of glass shards during a job.

“What time?”

“The appointment? Eleven.”

“'kay. You go and get your stitches looked at or whatever it is they do, and when you get back, we'll take a walk.”

“What are _you_ going to do in the meantime?” Arthur asks despite being slightly thrown off kilter by Eames' smile.

Which even grows as he answers now: “What do you think I'll do, darling? The dishes, of course.”

 

Arthur gets home in the early afternoon, having had to wait longer than anticipated.

“Everything's fine,” he answers Eames' unspoken question while they eat the rest of the soup Eames has reheated. “They'll take the stitches out next week.”

“Good,” Eames nods. “Are they itching yet? It's really healing when they are.”

Arthur grins into his soup because this is such an Eames thing to say. “Not itching yet,” he murmurs.

 

It's cold outside, since it's just turned December. Arthur and Eames huddle into their coats, but the crisp air is rather nice. They walk slowly, Eames adjusting to Arthur's pace, without talking at first. It's unfamiliar to be out and about without being on a job, and Eames finds he's enjoying it. He likes to watch other people, it's not just a habit. He could write books about human behaviour.

They treat themselves to a hot chocolate and drink it leaning against the railing of one of the park's bridges, since it's too cold to sit down.

“Why did you have it done here, if you don't mind my asking?” Eames wants to know. “You could have gone home to the States.”

“Here's as good as there, if you ask me,” Arthur answers. Eames knows that Arthur isn't very close to his parents or the rest of his family, but that's not what he meant to say anyway.

“ _I_ could have been there.” he says hesitantly. “You know... To make sure you had everything you needed.”

Arthur, who's been watching two children who're feeding the ducks, turns towards him, and his expression is half amused, half curious. Or maybe a third of each and one third indefinable.

“Like you're doing now?” he eventually asks.

Eames eyes a group of trees in the distance:“Yes. For instance.”

“I'm used to doing things alone.” Arthur's gaze is roaming over Eames' face.“I wouldn't have expected you to-” He breaks off.

“Do,” Eames says in a rush and a bit breathless, turning back to him. “Do expect me to in the future.”

They stare at each other, eyes smiling at the realization that they have just managed the next step of something.

They walk back to the flat unhurriedly but with a bit of spring in their step, or maybe it just seems as though everything's a bit brighter.

 

As soon as they've closed the door behind them and taken off their coats, Arthur and Eames turn towards each other, and Arthur thinks he's never seen Eames self-conscious or nervous, but this comes close. Simultaneously, they take a step towards each other, then Eames gently folds his arms around Arthur and pulls him even closer. Arthur's heart is beating in his throat and his stomach makes that weird fluttering thing because now their noses touch and he can almost taste Eames' scent, and the fact that Eames is holding him and that their bodies are touching like this is nearly too much to bear. But then Eames' mouth is on his, his lips are against his own, and thinking becomes entirely superfluous as they kiss, tenderly and hungrily all at once. Arthur's hands find Eames's chest, solid and marvellous to the touch.

At one point they pause, giddily, but neither of them wants it to stop, so they move, still kissing, towards the bedroom, where they crawl onto the mattress mindful of Arthur's wound. They stretch out on their sides, kissing and caressing each other like people who've been starved of this kind of contact for too long, and it's true. Even Eames hasn't been flirting with anyone lately, since there was always Arthur on his mind. He's tempted to take out his totem to check, just in case. As is Arthur. They don't, though, not now. They don't want to interrupt what they're doing, it feels too good. There's pressure and friction in exactly the right places, but above all, there's the mind-numbing pleasure that comes from finally getting something one has wanted for what seemed like an eternity.

 

“I'm glad you came,” Arthur later murmurs sleepily, in Eames' embrace, their legs entwined.

Eames chuckled: “Right back at you.”

“You know what I mean.” Arthur isn't really annoyed.

“Yeah,” Eames mutters. “I know.” He smiles at Arthur even though the other man can't see his face, pressing a kiss into his hair. “I just want to clarify that I didn't come here for this,” he adds. “I mean, I was certainly hoping for it, but first and foremost, I was worried about you.”

At that, Arthur cranes his neck so that he can look at Eames, eyes taking in every detail of his face, and realizes that he's been stupid: Eames didn't once make him feel weak or incapable ever since he arrived, and Arthur should have known that he wouldn't. “I'm sorry I didn't get in touch,” he says softly. “It'd have been so much better with you here. I just didn't know- you know.” He trails off.

“Stop apologizing,” Eames says fondly. “I know.” His hand finds Arthur's face, gently caresses his temple: “In my humble opinion, you haven't been loved enough until now,” he murmurs. “But I love you, Arthur. I want to be there for you, if you let me. Good and bad times and all that.”

A delicate shudder runs down Arthur's spine. He's rarely felt so cherished. His expression is serious as he answers, because he's never said this to anyone before, at least not as an adult: “I love you, too, Mr. Eames.”

Eames chuckles, leaning in for another kiss. His hand, which is still caressing Arthur's temple, is slowly meandering into the other's hair, fingertips playing with the soft strands.

“I like your hair like this,” he murmurs. “You look younger.”

Arthur raises one eyebrow: “You don't want me to call you Daddy, I hope.”

“No, silly,” Eames says, rolling his eyes. “I just... this is what I saw when I was alone with you.”

Arthur shrugs: “Clients don't necessarily want someone young when they're hiring extractors,” he replies.

“I know. They're idiots.”

Arthur grins, and Eames marvels at his dimples and his beautiful brown eyes. “You're gorgeous, regardless of your hair,” he adds.

“And you're gorgeous regardless of your love for pink Paisley,” Arthur quips, earning himself a pinch.

“No one is allowed to joke about about my fashion sense,” Eames announces.

Arthur however won't budge:“But. It's pink. Paisley.”

“Suits my complexion just fine, darling.”

Sighing, Arthur shakes his head: “Okay- I'll concede as much: if anyone can wear pink Paisley at all, it's you.”

“The exception upholds the rule, right?” Eames mutters, gently pulling Arthur closer.

“Right,” Arthur all but whispers, his breath warm on Eames' skin. "You're special, Eames."

They falls asleep in each other's arms.

 

**The End**

 

 

#stopyulinforever

#wecanstopyulin

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Since English isn't my native tongue, there might be mistakes I overlooked. In that case, I'm sorry.


End file.
